Nico nods. “Yeah. Greta wants to show me this technique she’ll be using to remove an old layer of varnish on an oil painting that was previously restored, so I’ll head up there in the afternoon whenI’m finished with my day at Vera’s. She said the process takes a few hours.”
I start pouring the sauce over the pasta, and my heart does that same thing again where it feels like it’s skipped a beat. I’m so damn proud of him.
He nudges me with his elbow. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” I retort, but I know exactly what he means. I’m grinning like an idiot, and he’s seen the look on my face.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a huge deal.” I set the pot back down and pick up the spoon to stir the pasta and sauce together. “It’s a huge deal because when you talk about anything to do with your apprenticeship, your voice changes, and you sound eager and happy, and I just love it.”
He slips both arms around my waist and tugs on me until I turn to face him. Then he stretches up to kiss me, his lips soft and warm.
“Mmm,” he hums against me, smiling, and his arms tighten around me. When he pulls back, his cheeks are tinged pink, and he ducks his head. “I’m so grateful Vera suggested it and Greta took a chance on me. The work—it’s perfect for me, I think.” He glances back up at me, and he seems about to say something else when his phone chimes from the pocket of his slacks.
He shrugs and pulls it out while I finish mixing the pasta and then get us each a bowl from the cupboard.
“My mom, um... says hi.” He turns so he’s leaning back against the counter, now staring at his phone, his shoulders tense.
I set the bowls down and watch as he takes a deep breath, then taps out a message on his phone. After he sends it, he looks up at me, his face contorted in a grimace.
It’s just a little too much, sometimes, he told me. It’s only been a week since he reconnected with his mom, and she’s been maybe a little bit more eager than he was ready for. Not that there’s beenanything bad. It’s just been a lot. She’s been sending him multiple text messages a day sometimes, and she’s already tried to call him again twice. Both times, he wasn’t at home or with me, and so he made the decision not to answer, which I think was the right call.
“You don’t have to respond,” I remind him, and he almost sort of smiles but then drops his eyes to his phone again as another message comes through.
With a weak laugh, he shakes his head. “She just asked if your hair is still blue.” He pauses and continues reading whatever else is on his phone screen.
It seems like he needs me now, so I abandon our dinner and step over to him. My arm slips up around his shoulders, and he immediately leans against me with a sigh. I press a soft kiss to his temple.
“I haven’t sent her the pictures we took last week. I guess I wasn’t quite ready yet,” he says quietly.
I nod but don’t say anything.
He lets out a long sigh and sets his jaw. “Maybe... maybe I’ll send them now. That would answer her question, yeah?”
“Only if you want to.”
“I think I do.” He snuggles up against me more, and I squeeze his shoulders gently as he types out a short text message that reads“Dark blue now. And this happened last week. <3”Then, he attaches one of the photos we took on the bridge at the Japanese garden—the one where my hand is partially covering his on his chest, showing off our matching rings—and hits send.
He quickly hits the power button to black out his screen and shoves his phone in his pocket like he doesn’t want to see whatever her response is. Then he turns back around and reaches across the stove to the pot of pasta. His phone chimes almost right away, but this time, he ignores it.
“I just need a minute,” he explains.
My hand finds his lower back. “I know. You’re so strong for talking to her like you have been. But it’s okay to need some space too. If you need help telling her that...” I trail off as he shakes his head.
“No, it’s okay. I... I can do it if I need to.” He gives me a tight smile and then sighs. “Let’s eat?”
I nod, smile softly, and lean in to kiss him gently on the lips, letting my hand rub low on his back.
Together, we portion out the pasta and then move to the kitchen table, his phone chiming a few more times before we get seated. He laughs and makes a comment about how he shouldn’t have opened the floodgates right before dinner. And he scoots his chair as close to mine as it can go, leans up against me, and closes his eyes.
After a few long moments, he sets his hand on my thigh and straightens up. Then he reaches out to pick up his fork. I copy him, and we start to eat. The meal is a simple one—a recipe of my mom’s that she calls chicken pot pie pasta. It’s easy and one of Nico’s favorites, and I’m glad to see his appetite when he digs in.
“So...” He nudges me with his elbow, and when I glance over, he’s grinning, his eyes sparkling with eagerness. “Big or small?”
I narrow my eyes in confusion. “I’m gonna need a bit more context, because, you know, big or small, itreallydepends...”
He giggles and shakes his head. “For the wedding. Big or small? Outdoors or indoors? Here or in Nebraska? Soon or wait a while? Do you have any preferences?”
